


Something To Kill The Pain

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M, Other Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Reaching the saturation point. Includes Reed/m. (04/21/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers: 3.01 "The Xindi," 3.02 "Anomaly," my own story "Rage."  
  
This is Nijijin's fault. She went and started her darkly fabulous 'Understood' series, and a vicious Plotbunnie leapt out of the warren and latched on to me with its hideous little fangs. Luckily, Nijijin is as generous as she is talented, and was kind enough to let me write this, so I wouldn't have to undergo immediate emergency bunnie removal surgery.  
  
Please consider this an AU sequel to 'Understoodâ€”Prequel' and 'Understoodâ€”Phlox,' both by Nijijin, and AU to the 'canon' of my own stories. This story takes place several hours after the Prequel.  
  
And again, Niji, thank you.  
Beta reader(s): Kageygirl, who is wonderful and puts up with me. She is boundless in her rocking. And thanks go to Red, for the excellent logistics advice and the marvelous medical information. You guys are awesome.  


* * *

They'd showered in the cramped little cubicles just off the decon chamber, washing off hours' worth of mud, sweat and stagnant water. They'd grabbed new skivvies from the abundant supply and changed into them. Phlox had grinned happily from behind the airtight door as they'd each taken a small jar of the familiar blue gel.

"How are you, Lieutenant?" Phlox had asked when only Malcolm was left standing in front of the window. And if Phlox's manner displayed more than his usual solicitousness, Sergeant Kemper was too busy looking around the decon chamber to pay them any attention.

"As well as can be expected," Malcolm said. Phlox returned his tired smile with one of miserable understanding. Malcolm kept his stance casual, though he had turned his body away from the window so that Phlox couldn't see his right leg. The last thing he wanted was Phlox fussing over him for hours because of nothing but a bad bruise. "I'll be more than capable of leading the next mission."

"Of course," Phlox said. His eyes darted to the side; he was obviously making sure Kemper wasn't listening. Malcolm could tell that the MACO wasn't, since he could see the young man's reflection in the glass. Kemper was staring curiously at the contents of his gel jar. "I have more of the...prescription for you. It's in the pockets of your replacement uniform."

"Thank you," Malcolm said. He didn't let his irritation show, though he wished Phlox wouldn't be quite so 'cloak and dagger' about the whole thing. Even if the 'prescription' he was talking about broke some extremely serious Starfleet regulations.

Phlox's voice dropped lower. "How are you managing, really?" he asked. His face was eloquent with concern; enough so that Malcolm was worried Kemper might look up again and see it after all.

"As well as can be expected," Malcolm repeated. His voice was quiet, but held an edge. "Thank you," he said, giving a tiny salute with the jar. He purposely moved away from the window, ending the conversation. But he could still feel Phlox's worried gaze following him.

He moved to the nearest bench, trying not to limp, unscrewing the cap of the jar. Lifting his left foot onto the bench, he methodically smeared it with gel, rubbing it well into the sole so he wouldn't slip. He took as much time as he could with his left leg, mentally preparing himself for having to move his right.

Their friends the Osaarians had apparently been just as interested in the ancient Xindi communications array they'd found as captain Archer was, and just as determined to keep anyone else away from it. Malcolm and Hayes's team had managed to drive them off, but not without expending considerable effort and ammunition. Malcolm had done his damnedest to keep everyone safe, but even so, he had to admit that the fact they were all still intact and breathing was as much due to sheer luck as skill. Being in the right place at the right time to pull Sergeant Kemper away from an incoming Osaarian rocket had been far more coincidence than anything else. As it was he'd landed on his right leg so hard he'd split the gash there open again. He'd also managed to bruise his upper thigh so badly that the wound was eclipsed by swollen blue-black, and now his leg was stiff enough to make walking difficult.

Luckily, he had a full twelve hours before the second away mission would head out, now that the array was secure. A few hours' sleep, some more of Phlox's special concoction, and he'd be just fine.

But he still had to get out of decon, and that meant pretending that everything was all right. So he waited until Kemper's attention was absorbed with spreading the gel onto his own forearms, then Malcolm took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and heaved his right leg up so his foot was on the bench.

It hurt like hell, a fierce ache that seemed to engulf his entire upper leg. Malcolm sucked in air though his nose, trying not to groan.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Malcolm looked up sharply, into the bright, worried eyes of the sergeant. The MACO had a blob of gel balanced on three fingers, probably about to apply it to his chest.

For a second, just a second, it was as if Trip were standing there, not the younger, almost anonymous MACO. They looked nothing alike—even Kemper's hair was a far lighter blond—but there was still a similarity, undeniable.

The same guileless in his expression, the same honest concern reflecting from his eyes. It was as if Malcolm's heart recognized it first, reacting with a longing so powerful it almost made him gasp.

But it wasn't Trip standing there, looking at him like that. Chances were Trip would never look at him like that again, would never again care that much. It was just another blond. No one.

"Sir?"

Malcolm blinked, forcing himself to respond. "Sorry," he said. He smiled. "Just a bit sore." He turned away quickly, making a show of concentrating on his right foot.

It wasn't a lie. He ached. It seemed every part of him shared in some kind of pain. The worst, though, was his leg. Each movement of his thigh muscles made it worse, but Malcolm kept his jaw clenched and continued moving as if everything were fine. Aftershocks of that moment of almost-recognition coursed through him like adrenaline, making his breath catch and his hands shake.

He missed Trip. Missed him so badly.

He slapped the gel on his leg as quickly as possible, wanting only to be able to get back to his quarters, take more of Phlox's special concoction, and bind his leg up again. He hesitated before spreading gel over the wound itself, then had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. It felt like he had stabbed himself with a branding iron, and his fingertips came away pinkish with gel and blood.

He clenched his fist until the pain subsided, then wiped his fingers quickly on his briefs, hoping the bright blue of the cloth would hide the bloodstain from the reopened wound. He cast a surreptitious glance at Kemper, making sure the sergeant hadn't seen him. He couldn't afford for Kemper to notice anything was wrong. Moving his right foot off the bench was a lot easier, at least. He rubbed more gel over his arms, shoulders, neck and chest with the efficiency of habit, then paused, sighing inwardly. He turned towards Kemper, about to ask him for help getting the stuff on his back, and actually burst out laughing.

The sergeant looked up at him, blinking, both of his hands shining with thick coats of gel. "What?"

Malcolm shook his head, grinning. "You aren't required to put it in your hair."

Kemper looked at him, apparently noticing for the first time that the lieutenant's hair was still dry, and that his face didn't have any gel on it. Kemper's hair was slicked to his skull, shining wetly under the blue light. He had also liberally applied the gel to his face; he looked like someone had dipped him in oil.

"You're not?"

"No," Malcolm assured him, still chuckling. "I'm sorry. I thought everyone knew."

"Oh," Kemper said, pursing his lips. "Uh..." He looked helplessly at his completely covered hands. "Should I take it off?"

"I'm sure it's fine," Malcolm said. "You'll probably be far healthier than the rest of us. Come on," He gestured for the sergeant to approach him. "You might as well wipe your hands on my back—I was going to ask for your help with that anyway."

"Great," Kemper said happily. "Thanks."

Malcolm stood facing the wall, shaking his head and smiling. He almost felt like thanking Kemper for putting the gel in his hair—he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed at anything.

Then he felt the soldier's hands on his back, and Malcolm didn't feel like laughing anymore. Kemper's touch was brisk, efficient, completely impersonal. But Malcolm tensed immediately anyway, trying to calm the sudden, painful slamming of his heart.

He couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him, either—not like this, warm skin to warm skin. There was only the merest suggestion of intimacy here—a man's palms on another man's back—but Malcolm could still feel it shudder through him, like an echo in his blood.

Kemper's hands slowed, stopped. Malcolm could feel them on his shoulders, gripping lightly, as if to steady him. Twin circles of heat from the palms. "Are you okay? You're shaking."

"I'm just tired, Sergeant," Malcolm said. He forced his fists to relax, forced himself to breathe. It was just skin, it was nothing. A body could be fooled, but not the mind. Not the mind. He knew better; this wasn't anyone. "Have you finished?" he asked, because Kemper's hands still weren't moving.

"No," Kemper said quickly. "Sorry." His hands started moving again, drawing broad, warm lines on Malcolm's back; two fingers down the valley of his spine. Then they slowed again, moving back to Malcolm's shoulders. "I—" He hesitated, stopped speaking. But he began digging in with his thumbs, pressing against knotted muscle. Kemper laughed, though the sound was raw and anxious. "You're so tense. You're back's like rock."

Malcolm froze, the warm air of decon settling like steel in his lungs. "That behavior is inappropriate, Sergeant."

Kemper's hands flew away from him like Malcolm was on fire. "I apologize," he said quickly—completely, correctly formal again. He stepped back, and the air between them suddenly felt chilled.

"Your turn," Malcolm said, as if nothing had happened. He scooped another portion of gel out of his container, then rubbed his hands together to warm it. Trip hated it when Malcolm's hands were cold.

Malcolm turned to face the MACO, putting most of his weight on his left leg. He managed it without betraying how much it hurt. "Turn around," he said, because Kemper was still looking at him. "I need to put gel on your back."

Kemper didn't turn. "I didn't mean to overstep my bounds, sir," he said quietly. "It's just..." He paused, licking his lips though they were still glistening with gel. "You've been on every recon mission, haven't you?" Kemper continued. Malcolm nodded once, because there was no point in denying what the sergeant already knew. Kemper stared hard at Malcolm's face, as if seeking something. Malcolm could practically feel it, like heat roving over his skin. "And you keep getting hurt," Kemper said. "But you never sit a mission out, get properly patched up, anything."

Malcolm made sure his voice was neutral, controlled, his eyes betraying nothing. "I take appropriate care of myself, Sergeant."

Kemper's gaze flickered from his scarred face to his broken finger and back, and for a moment Malcolm thought the soldier might actually call him on it. But, "I'm sure you do, sir," was all he said, though Malcolm couldn't decide if Kemper was being sincere or not. "It's just..." He took a breath. Malcolm stayed completely still. "I heard you cry out, when you tackled me away from that explosion." The MACO's voice had dropped until he was almost whispering. "I thought the Osaarians had killed you. That you died saving me." He reached out with his right hand and touched the back of Malcolm's wrist. Just two fingers balanced on the round swell of the bone. That was all.

But his eyes—not Trip's, not even like them—his eyes were blazing.

"I hate it," Kemper said with a conviction that was close to fury, "that you keep getting hurt."

_No_ , Malcolm thought. _Not this. Not this. Not now_. He yanked his hand back. The remnants of the soldier's touch stayed with him, like an electric current along his arm. "Your concern is appreciated," he said. He made his voice acid. "But your gratitude is misplaced—as is your method of showing it."

Kemper paled under the sheen of gel. He snapped to as close a facsimile of attention as possible, given that he was covered in decontamination gel and very far out of uniform. "I'm very sorry, sir," he said, looking straight past Malcolm's shoulder at the chamber wall. "It won't happen again."

"Good," Malcolm said. "See that it doesn't." He was too tired to keep any real anger in his tone. He sighed. "Please turn around, Sergeant," he said. "You still need gel on your back."

"Sorry," Kemper said quickly. It was at least the third time the MACO had apologized since they'd gone into the chamber; it was beginning to set Malcolm's teeth on edge. He was relieved when Kemper finally turned.

Malcolm bent slightly as he reached for his gel container. Suddenly he swayed, crying out involuntarily as a sick wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. He would have fallen if Kemper hadn't whirled around and caught him.

"My God! Sir, are you all right?"

Malcolm swallowed, fighting down the unexpected nausea as he waited for the vertigo to recede. He had to blink several times to chase the black spots away from his eyes. "You can let me go, Sergeant," he said. "I'm all right."

"The hell you are!"

Malcolm's eyes snapped to the soldier's face and he had to pull in a breath as the dizziness surged back again. He was still able to all but snarl at the young man, "I told you to let me go."

Kemper's hands were off him immediately. The soldier stepped back, though his eyes still flashed with a mixture of anger and concern. "I respectfully recommend you go see Doctor Phlox after this, sir," he said.

"Noted," Malcolm snapped. He steeled himself and grabbed the jar off the bench in one fast motion, relieved when the dizziness didn't get any worse. He was obviously even more tired than he had imagined. "Now turn around."

Kemper did. He stood with his arms straight and his hands in fists at his sides, his whole body radiating tension. Malcolm ignored it. He slapped the gel on in four quick strokes.

Kemper's back happened to be beautiful, just like the rest of him. Malcolm ignored that, too.

* * *

It was a very long walk to his quarters.

Malcolm's hand was trembling fiercely by the time he punched in his door code. His entire right leg was stiff and aching, and he felt lightheaded and weak. It had been all he could manage, to climb into his change of uniform. Doing it under Kemper's worried eyes hadn't much helped.

There was a message light flashing on his computer console, and Malcolm paused, thinking briefly about answering it. But it wasn't urgent—couldn't have been, or he would have known about it already. And he was so tired.

He kicked his boots off by the door, for once not caring if they were squared neatly away in his closet or not. Taking off his uniform again seemed like a momentous task, but he had to bind up his leg.

But he was finally home now. He was safe. He didn't have to pretend anymore. He could take something to kill the pain.

There were fresh hyposprays in the sleeve and leg pocket of his uniform, just like Phlox had promised. Malcolm pulled them both out now, and put one on his desk. He adjusted the other to the maximum dose and pressed it to his neck.

The relief was instantaneous, flooding his system in a ripple of warmth. He let it soak into him, then sealed the hypospray closed, slipping it and the unused one into his desk drawer. It was so much easier to move now that nothing hurt.

He shed his uniform, laying it neatly over a chair in preparation for the morning. The rest of his clothes went into the laundry. He walked into the tiny bathroom off his quarters, pleased that his thigh no longer bothered him as he moved.

He opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out his personal first aid kit, smiling grimly at the half-empty bottle of antiseptic. He poured a liberal amount onto a gauze pad and pressed it to the wound. Even through the protective barrier of Phlox's drug he could feel the deep, stinging pain of the gash itself, and the heavier, more solid pain of the surrounding bruise. He gritted his teeth, rubbing at the wound until it was bleeding again. It hurt, but better that than risk it getting infected. Phlox would insist he stayed in Sick bay to take care of an infection. And he couldn't afford that. Not now. Not with such an important away mission in just a few hours.

But he'd go after tomorrow's mission was over. After they'd secured the communications array. Once he was sure the away team would be safe. He could spend a week in Sick bay if he had to after that, letting Phlox scan and poke at him to his heart's content. At least until Archer ordered him on another mission. But not before. Not before. Too many people were depending on him.

Trip was depending on him.

Trip was going down in the morning, with six members of his engineering team, to see if the Xindi equipment would finally give them useful information. Malcolm and a group of Hayes's soldiers would keep the away team safe if the Osaarians came back to contest ownership again.

And he would be there to protect Trip no matter what. Even if it killed him.

* * *

Trip Tucker stalked down the corridor of the crew quarters on B deck, quietly seething. He'd waited for Malcolm in his office for ten minutes, expecting to go over some of the schematics of the Xindi array with him. He'd figured the lieutenant's expertise could help him decide what might be safe to touch or not, what might be booby-trapped by the Xindi or the Osaarians.

But Malcolm had blown him off. Trip had sent him an e-mail just yesterday to remind him, but Malcolm hadn't shown up, hadn't commed to let Trip know he wouldn't be there. Trip knew Malcolm had been more than usually reticent lately, preoccupied with the continuing recon missions and all, and—if Trip was being honest—probably more than a little ticked at him for how distant he'd been. But it wasn't Trip's fault that Malcolm refused to understand that he had no interest in being comforted, that he had no time or use for grieving. He had more important things to do.

Like figure out how to get whatever information might still be stored in the array out safely, damn it. And how the hell could he do that if Malcolm was going to get all pissy and start ignoring him?

Trip's mood hadn't been helped any by the latest batch of the day's anomalies to hit the ship, either. The turbolift in engineering had seemed fine when he'd gotten into it, and then had proceeded to creep its way between decks so slowly that Trip was half convinced he'd starve to death before it actually got anywhere. Luckily he'd arranged to meet Malcolm two hours before they were due for the pre-mission debriefing, or he was sure he'd still be stuck in the turbolift by the time the shuttles were due to leave. He'd called it in to the Bridge and warned everyone, but as it was they were now leaving in only forty minutes. And he and Malcolm were going to have to use the Jeffries tubes to get to the Launch bay—at least if they wanted to get there before the rest of the away team actually got back.

He was surprised when he hit the door chime to Malcolm's quarters and didn't get an answer. He'd already commed the Armory, after all, and then the Bridge, and even the mess looking for him, but Malcolm hadn't been in any of those places. Which meant he had to be in his quarters. Which meant he should have answered the door.

For the first time that morning it occurred to Trip that something might be wrong.

He punched in Malcolm's door code, and was kind of surprised when it actually worked. Part of him had been certain Malcolm would have changed it just to spite him. The door slid open with a soft _whoosh_.

The room was dark, once the door closed again behind him, and it smelled of sweat, and something more unpleasant that Trip didn't recognize. There was a loud beeping noise, and after a second Trip realized it was the computer-generated alarm.

"Lights," Trip ordered, voice tight. Once he could see, he went quickly to Malcolm's bedside and slapped the alarm off.

Malcolm was in his bed, bare-chested and wearing a loose pair of boxers, obviously dressed for sleep. His eyes were closed but he was moving fitfully, as if trying to claw his way out of a bad dream. He was covered in sweat—hair and sheets soaked with it. The blankets were lying in a crumpled, forlorn heap on the floor.

There was a bandage wrapped tightly around Malcolm's upper right thigh, surrounded by a large, dark, oval bruise. The bandage was soaked through, mostly with sweat, but part of it had a dark, yellowish stain. There was more of the yellow liquid leaking out from under the bandage. Malcolm's thigh was inflamed, and this was where the second, awful smell was coming from, heavy enough that it nearly made Trip gag. He recognized it now: infection.

"Sweet Jesus," Trip whispered. He immediately reached across the bed to thumb on the comm. "Medical emergency in Reed's quarters," he said. "Malcolm's unconscious—his leg's infected. It's real bad." His heart was hammering, voice almost quavering with it. He'd never seen anybody this sick in his life.

It was Cutler who answered. "We'll be there as soon as we can." He wanted to shout at her. What was she playing at? Didn't she understand how serious this was? They were only three decks below Malcolm's quarters—

Three decks. And the turbolift was all but out of commission. He didn't want to think how long it might take before they actually arrived.

Malcolm moaned, and his eyes opened to slits. One hand groped weakly at the air, as if trying to grab for something.

"Malcolm!" Trip grabbed his wrist, cupping the lieutenant's flushed face with his other hand. His two recent scars stood out in glaring white. "It's Trip. Can you hear me? Can you talk?" Malcolm didn't respond; he gave no indication he even knew Trip was there. His skin was so hot it felt like Malcolm's blood was boiling.

Trip glanced towards Malcolm's bathroom, made an instant decision. "C'mon," he said. He used his grip on Malcolm's wrist to pull him upright, then slid Malcolm's arm across his shoulders, using his free arm to grip tightly to the lieutenant's waist. "We gotta get you cooled down." He had to drag Malcolm into the bathroom; he hung like a dead weight from his arms. Malcolm was thinner than Trip remembered. Trip could feel his ribs in stark relief under his palm.

Malcolm forgot to eat when he was stressed. Trip didn't eat when he was unhappy—he was sure he'd lot a bit of weight himself since Lizzie died—It was a kind of in-joke between them. Now it just served to underscore how little time they'd been spending together; Trip had known about the almost-constant away missions, and the injuries, but he hadn't know about this. He hadn't known about this at all.

"Lights," he ordered again as soon as they were in the tidy little room. There wasn't enough space to be side-by-side they way they were, so Trip shifted Malcolm until he was holding the lieutenant under his arms, Malcolm's back against his chest. He awkwardly walked backwards with him into the shower stall, then let go with one hand just long enough to turn it on. Trip set the stream to full blast, as cold as it would go, ignoring that he was also right under the sluice and still in full uniform. He winced as the freezing water poured over his head and shoulders.

Malcolm started violently the instant the water hit him. Then he attacked.

In a second Trip was shoved hard against the wall of the shower, blinking water out of his eyes and seeing stars. Malcolm's forearm was pressed tightly across his throat. He was looking down into Malcolm's uncomprehending, fever-bright eyes.

"Malcolm!" Trip exclaimed, straining against the pressure on his windpipe, "Malcolm, it's me! Trip!" He gripped the wrist and elbow of the arm against his throat, trying to push Malcolm away from him. Considering how ill he was, Malcolm's strength was remarkable. "I'm Trip!" he repeated, "It's Trip! It's me!"

Just then Malcolm's right leg gave out, sliding on the wet floor. Malcolm screamed and went limp. Trip grabbed him before he collapsed, using the wall to slide down until he was sitting on the floor, holding Malcolm to him. Malcolm's head lolled against his collarbone, so hot Trip could feel it even though his drenched clothing.

Malcolm had slipped back into semi-consciousness. He seemed to be murmuring something about the QueeOralla. "It's okay, Malcolm," Trip tried to soothe him. "You're on _Enterprise_. You're safe. It's okay."

"No," Malcolm moaned. "No, Trip. Don't...I'll hurt you—"

"Shhh," Trip said. He touched his cold lips to Malcolm's burning forehead. "You could never hurt me. It's all right." He wanted to pull the lieutenant more closely to him, but didn't want to risk warming him further by sharing body heat. He hoped the medics would get there soon.

"No!" Malcolm's eyes snapped open, darting wildly. He pushed against Trip, tried to lever himself upright, scramble back. His infected leg kept sliding uselessly on the floor.

Trip grabbed for him. "Malcolm, it's okay!"

"Trip." Malcolm's trembling hands were fisted in the wet cloth of Trip's uniform, his wet hair falling over his forehead. "I stabbed you." His eyes were terrified, shocked with what, in his delirium, was a revelation. "I killed you. You're dead."

"I'm not, Malc," Trip said. He held Malcolm's face between his two hands, trying to make the lieutenant look him in the eyes, to really see him despite the fog of his illness. "I'm here. I'm right here." Beneath the cold of the running water, Malcolm's jaw was hot against his palms.

"No. You're dead," Malcolm insisted. He looked stricken, bereft. One of his hands came up, touched almost wonderingly at Trip's face. Trip could feel the unnatural heat of the fingertips, like tiny presses of fire. "You're gone."

"No, Malcolm," Trip almost sobbed. He moved his hands to pull Malcolm to him, holding him tightly despite his fever. The water rushed over them both. "I'm here. I'm not leaving. I promise."

"I can't even feel you anymore," Malcolm said. "Not anywhere. I miss you so much."

Trip just held him. "Oh god. Malcolm. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I'm cold," Malcolm murmured. His eyes were closing again.

Trip reached up and turned the water off. "Me, too," he whispered. But he didn't just mean the water. He didn't know what he meant.

Phlox and a group of medics found him there ten minutes later: wet and shivering, holding Malcolm's unconscious body in his arms.

* * *

"Ah. There you are, Lieutenant. How are you feeling?"

Malcolm drifted up from the pleasant place he'd been resting, somewhere cool and dark, far away from the heat and the terrible pain. He blinked slowly, smiling up into Phlox's inhuman blue eyes.

Then a second later he was sitting up, nerves raw with fear. "The mission...!" He had no memory of it, nothing beyond getting ready for bed the night before. Had he been wounded? That would explain why he was feeling so shaky. He looked at Phlox anxiously. "I can't remember what happened. Was anyone hurt?"

Phlox's equally anxious expression softened to a typically genial smile. "There's no need to be concerned, Mr. Reed—the second away team mission to the Xindi array came back without any casualties. It seems you and the Major's MACOs had successfully convinced the Osaarians to go treasure-hunting elsewhere."

The relief practically left him gasping. Everyone was all right. Trip was all right. "Thank god," he breathed. "So, it was just me, then?" he asked, wanting to be sure, "I'm the only one who got hurt?"

Phlox blinked, then seemed to catch on. "Oh! No—you weren't wounded." His face became mildly admonishing. "...Though I hope you realize that _had_ you been injured, I would have counted it as much of a casualty as anyone else. Actually," he continued with his usual humor, "you never went on the away mission. You developed a rather nasty bacterial infection in your leg wound, most likely from when you and Sergeant Kemper fell into that shallow pool. You've been in Sick bay for three days."

"Three days?" Malcolm looked at the doctor in amazement. "But..." He glanced at his right leg under the blanket, as if its shape would tell him something. Except for some weakness, he felt absolutely fine. "I had a bruise, that was all." "—Which you didn't tell me about," Phlox said pointedly. "You might have saved us all a great deal of grief if you had. You were near death when Commander Tucker found you."

"Near _death_?" Malcolm knew he was parroting, but couldn't seem to help it. "I...I don't remember any of this. I was fine when I went to bed—" At Phlox's look he quickly added, "Well, my leg hurt, and I was tired, but—"

"Sergeant Kemper told me you almost _fainted_ in the decon chamber, Lieutenant," Phlox said. "He told me you said you would see me after you were cleared from the chamber. But you didn't."

"And what would you have done if I _had_ gone to see you?" Malcolm snapped. He lowered his voice, nearly hissing. "You of all people should know what's going on here, doctor! You know better than anyone what I'm up against, what I have to do! I _have_ to be on these recon missions. I won't let any of the crew be hurt in my place!"

"And if you die? What then?" Phlox snapped back at him angrily. "How can you protect anyone if you don't take care of yourself?"

Malcolm glowered at him. His heart was pounding like he'd been running, likely leftover weakness from being so sick; this was probably not the time or the place to be having this argument. "I've been doing fine." "You've been holding yourself together with pain suppressants and stimulants," came Phlox's immediate, furious, response. "Ignoring your injuries, running yourself into the ground. The body can only take so much of that, Lieutenant. This time you almost died; next time I'm sure you won't be so lucky." He shook his head, face filling with remorse. "It was wrong of me to help you destroy yourself," he said. "I should never have let it go this far." He sighed, but his expression was resolute. "I'm afraid I can't give you any more medication."

Malcolm knew exactly what 'medication' Phlox meant. His eyes widened, then narrowed to vicious slits. His hands closed in fists on the blanket. "If you don't," he said, voice brittle with anger, "if you prevent me from doing everything in my power to help these people, you'll be condemning god knows how many of our crewmates to death."

"That may be, Lieutenant," Phlox said quietly, still looking Malcolm in the eyes, "but it's far from certain. What _is_ certain, however, is that if I allow this to continue I _will_ be condemning _you_ to death. And that I refuse to do."

* * *

Malcolm was sitting at his desk in his quarters, rubbing his right index finger and thumb absently over the little finger of his left hand. Phlox had reset it while he'd been unconscious. He was finding it surprisingly difficult to adjust to it being normal again. He kept being startled every time he looked at it, expecting the finger to still be badly bent.

Funny the sort of things one could get used to.

His face, on the other hand—it had taken no time at all to accept the reflection in the mirror as his own, even without the two scars. Obviously his self-image hadn't begun to include the scars yet; it was perfectly normal not to see them.

As for the rest—his shoulder, his leg...well, it was wonderful not to be in constant pain.

Phlox had been busy while Malcolm had been too ill to protest that the doctor's skills might be better served elsewhere. Malcolm knew that to look at him, now, it would seem that he hadn't seen any combat at all.

The hyposprays in his desk drawer were gone. Phlox had come to his quarters and made Malcolm give them to him.

The second away mission to the Xindi array had been only marginally fruitful, but no one had been hurt. Even now, two days after his release from Sick bay—a full four days since the mission he should have been on—he could barely believe it. No one had been hurt. It seemed like a miracle, like a gift he scarcely deserved.

He should have been there. He should have gone with them, to keep them safe. They had all been so lucky. He had been so incredibly lucky.

The door chime rang. Malcolm looked up without interest. He thought it might be the captain, using amicable concern to check on him, to see how soon he would be ready for yet another mission. Malcolm had no idea if Archer had found out about his agreement with Phlox, but he was fairly certain the captain wouldn't care.

But it was Trip, not Archer, who walked almost hesitantly into the room.

"Trip," Malcolm said, genuinely surprised. They had barely spoken in weeks, save for ship's business and the occasional distant, morose conversation. Trip may have been the one to find him, according to Phlox, but Malcolm knew it was only because he hadn't shown up for their meeting.

His heart clenched at the sight of him, from a desire so sharp it was its own kind of pain. "It's good to see you," Malcolm said. And it was. Oh god, it was. He wanted to go to him, immediately, take him in his arms, kiss him until they both forgot how to breathe. But he didn't move.

"Hi, Malcolm." Trip said. He hadn't moved any further into the room. His hands were nervously clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Malcolm swallowed. "Have a seat."

Trip stayed by the door. "Malcolm," he said, "I—I just wanted you to know..." He hesitated, running his hand through his hair. He took a breath. "I'm sorry I haven't been here for you, lately. I've missed you, too. It's just..." He broke off and gave a kind of sad, helpless shrug. "It's like—it's like I don't have room."

A sick relief washed through Malcolm. He had expected this, had been waiting for it. It was all right.

"It's okay, Trip," he said. He even smiled. "I understand." He clasped his hands together on the tabletop, gripped them until his fingers went red so they wouldn't shake. He kept his voice gentle and kind. "You can go. I'll let you go."

Trip blinked, staring at him. He took a hesitant step forward, then paused, as if there were some invisible force in the room holding him back. "It won't always be like this," he said, as if there were something more Malcolm had to understand, something else Trip had to explain. "But right now...I just can't, that's all. I just can't." His eyes were guileless and blue and tragic. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Malcolm said. He was working very hard to keep his voice level. "Just, go now, please? Just...go away."

"Sure," Trip said softly. He turned, and the door opened in front of him. He looked back over his shoulder. "I'm sorry." Then he stepped through the door and it closed and he was gone.

* * *

Sergeant Kemper looked up from the PADD he was reading when the door chimed. It was late, but he hadn't been sleeping. "Come in," he called, wondering who it was, what they wanted. Maybe Chang had corralled MacKenzie again and grabbed some beers from the mess—for some reason Kemper's cabin had become the designated gathering place when the other MACOs were kept up nights, by ghosts of fear or adrenaline.

But it was Lieutenant Malcolm Reed on the other side of the door. He was wearing worn jeans and a black t-shirt. His feet were bare, which was shocking. It seemed incredibly intimate, almost like seeing him naked.

Kemper's guts tightened with a coil of desire so sharp it almost stole his breath. "Sir?" he asked. It was all he could do to form such a simple word.

"I shouldn't be here," Malcolm said. The door had closed behind him, but he was still standing right in front of it, poised to leave. He looked...ragged, Kemper thought. Undone. Like something awful had happened to him.

Kemper swallowed silently, trying to keep his face impassive. "It's all right," he said, because he knew he had to say something, anything. The lieutenant was there, right there, in his room. And he so badly didn't want him to leave.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said. "This is wrong. It's—oh, god." He put his hands over his eyes, his breathing suddenly harsh, almost choking.

Kemper got up from his bed, automatically going to him. He was standing right next to Reed before he realized the lieutenant was fighting to hold back tears.

"Sir?" Kemper put a tentative hand on his shoulder, feeling the minute shuddering of the lieutenant's muscles. "What is it?" he asked. "Can I help?"

Reed shook his head, pulling his hand away from his eyes. "No," he said, "you can't." His gray-blue eyes were red rimmed and glistening. He looked at Kemper, his expression unreadable. Then he reached out, sliding his palm up to cup the sergeant's face.

Kemper gasped, but he didn't pull away. He could feel his own heart begin to pound in his chest, powerful and strong. "Yes," he said.

And Lieutenant Reed, Malcolm Reed, leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was gentle, yearning and sad. Malcolm's tongue slid across Kemper's lips, and the soldier opened his mouth obediently, drawing Malcolm in. Their tongues glided together, tasting of nothing but water and heat. His hand was still on Malcolm's shoulder, Malcolm's palm was still against his face, and they were sharing air, breathing softly into each other's mouths as they exhaled.

Kemper reached up, taking Malcolm's wrist, slowly pulling it away from his face and down to his side. Malcolm's eyes opened and he pulled back, turning away. A deep blush stole over his skin.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said. He tried to step away, but Kemper still had his wrist and wouldn't let him.

"No," Kemper said quietly. "No. It's all right." He smiled, trying not to show his trepidation. He picked up the hem of Malcolm's t-shirt in his free hand. It was warm from Malcolm's skin. He kept his voice soft, as if trying to soothe a wild animal. "But—do you want this? Really?"

Malcolm looked back at him, and his ocean eyes were fathoms deep with pain. "I don't' know," he said. But he lifted his hand again, touching Kemper's cheek, his lips. "God, you're so beautiful."

Kemper smiled; now he was blushing in return. "So are you," he said simply. He began to lift Malcolm's shirt. "Okay," he breathed when the other man didn't try to stop him. "Okay." It was a grateful sigh.

Malcolm's hands dropped to the hem of his shirt as well, trying to help. "Don't," Kemper said, stopping him. "Let me. Please."

"All right." Malcolm nodded. Then he stood silently as Kemper lifted his shirt, raising his arms to let it come over his head.

Kemper walked backwards towards his bed, pulling his own shirt off as he went, letting it fall heedlessly to the floor. He stopped when the back of his legs hit the bed frame, then reached for Malcolm and drew him into another kiss. This time he ran his palms over Malcolm's chest, learning him. He circled one of his nipples with his fingertips and smiled into the kiss when he heard the appreciative gasp. He rolled both nipples between his fingers and thumb, pulling gently, pleased that Malcolm liked what he did.

He broke the kiss, taking a few deep breaths. Malcolm's eyes were hooded, his lips moist as he panted through them. He watched wordlessly as Kemper reached for the buttons of his jeans, undoing each one. Malcolm pushed them over his hips, stepping out of them when they slid to the floor. Kemper caressed him through his briefs, and Malcolm shuddered.

Kemper took the back of Malcolm's head, pulling him in for another kiss, his other hand continuing to rub circles over Malcolm's cock. His own erection was pushing almost painfully against his jeans. Malcolm's hands moved to Kemper's ass, and Kemper slid his hand away so it wouldn't be trapped as Malcolm pulled them together. Malcolm swayed his hips so their groins brushed, and Kemper moaned into his mouth at the friction.

They broke apart long enough to finish undressing and climb onto the bed. Malcolm's hands were on Kemper's shoulders, but Kemper shook his head. "No, let me," he whispered, gently guiding Malcolm to lie on his back. Kemper sat back on his haunches, straddling Malcolm's thighs. There was a scar there, newly healed. It looked painful and Kemper was careful not to touch it.

Malcolm watched Kemper watching him. He clasped Kemper's hands in his own, entwining their fingers. When Kemper lifted his arms back over his head he didn't protest, didn't say anything. His eyes were like black water.

Kemper began to slide up and back along Malcolm's body, their cocks trapped and rubbing between them. He supported his weight with his legs and his arms, holding Malcolm's hands against the pillow. The friction felt incredible. He heard Malcolm's hiss of pleasure, felt his hands jump a little each time he moved.

Their kiss this time was heavy and devouring. It felt to Kemper almost as if he could inhale Malcolm, take him entirely inside himself, blending their bodies. "Oh god, Malcolm," he whispered, breathing it out against his lips, breathing it back in when Malcolm exhaled. He could feel Malcolm's hips bucking, rocking beneath him; smell the sweat in the hollow of his neck, the heat like an echo of his own desire.

The pleasure built until the rhythm broke and they were moving together in hurried sweeps, aching towards release. Malcolm's mouth opened wide under Kemper's and he sobbed out his climax. Kemper felt the hot rush of semen against his belly, breathing in the powerful male scent of it. It triggered his own orgasm and he cried out, shuddering and throwing his head back.

He collapsed on Malcolm, spent, then rolled quickly onto his side, not wanting to hurt Malcolm with his weight. He let go of Malcolm's hands and flexed his fingers, surprised to feel how sore they were. He moved his leg over Malcolm's and put his hand over Malcolm's heart.

"That was wonderful," he said. He nuzzled into Malcolm, feeling warm and sleepy. "Thank you."

Kemper smiled and closed his eyes, feeling warm and cared for and safe. He fell asleep like that, with Malcolm's hand threading through his hair.

* * *

Kemper was sleeping. His head was resting on Malcolm's upper arm.

Malcolm kept brushing Kemper's hair back, finding the repetitive movement soothing. And Trip always loved it when he did that. Trip enjoyed all kinds of touch.

Malcolm was cold. Kemper's arm and leg touching him, Kemper's head against his arm, were the only points of heat. The rest of him felt like ice, frozen all the way down.

"Trip," he whispered into the stillness of the room. "Trip."

Kemper's body was warm, his hair short and soft and blond. Malcolm could almost pretend it was Trip lying there, next to him. In love with him.

He stayed like that, carding Kemper's hair, listening to Kemper's quiet breathing.


End file.
